


Shag. Marry. Kill.

by AsymmetricalButterfly



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 06:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsymmetricalButterfly/pseuds/AsymmetricalButterfly
Summary: When Sascha and Nick find themselves trapped in the locker room together, Nick comes up with an entertaining way to pass the time.





	1. Chapter 1

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Sighing, Sascha put the racket that he was trying to wedge into his bag to one side and looked across at where the offending noise was coming from. It was hypnotic almost, the rise and fall of the yellow felt ball against the ground, effortlessly being scooped and released on each bounce, but the hypnotism didn’t extend to erasing his irritation. 

“Do you mind?” Sascha asked, his voice laced with the irritation that he felt.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“It’s good for hand-eye coordination. I thought you were all about putting the hours in off the court?” 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

What made it even more frustrating, more frustrating than completely ignoring his request, was that he hadn’t even looked up from his phone to address him. Just continued scrolling with a hint of a smirk playing round his lips as he snarked back at him, lounging on the locker room bench. Irritation continued to worm its way through Sascha’s gut.

“But you’re not even looking at the ball!” Sascha pointed out, his voice several octaves higher than he intended to let on.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“That’ll be peripheral vision. Like right now I’m not even looking at you, but I know you’ve got your hands on your hips and your left sock is slightly higher than your right.”

Immediately Sascha looked down to his feet where, as he’d been informed, his left sock was sitting approximately 1cm higher than his right sock. The irritation wormed even deeper, Sascha somehow perturbed that he’d been caught out in the wrong when it was _just a sock_. He fought the impulse to reach down and adjust the left sock and squared his gaze back on Nick Kyrgios who had finally deigned to meet his eye, his amusement all too apparent. In a flash of smooth brown skin, the ball thudded once more but this time it bounced in front of Sascha who caught it without breaking eye contact.

“Not bad,” Nick muttered, before turning back to his phone and resuming the scrolling.

For a moment Sascha continued glowering at Nick before dropping the ball onto the bench beside him and turning back to his bag. If anything, he was more irritated now than he was by the repetitive bouncing of the ball. At least then he hadn’t been under the scrutiny of those dark, mocking eyes and enveloped by the silence of the locker room. During daytime and early evening, the locker room was a vibrant buzz of laughter and chatter. Closing in on midnight and it was invariably the last few winners of the day, awkwardly making small talk and trying to get out of there as quickly as possible. Except for Nick Kyrgios, who looked like he was quite prepared to keep his team and the staff waiting for as long as possible. Irritation overcame him once more, driving him to turn back to Nick.

“What are you even still doing here anyway?” Sascha asked.

“Waiting for my laundry,” Nick said simply.

“Your laundry?” 

“The hotel laundry uses like this really strong smelling detergent, so I’m doing my own.”

Shaking his head with bewilderment, Sascha returned to his bag and lifted it onto his shoulder, draping his Adidas hoodie over the other shoulder. It seemed appropriate to say something as means of goodbye to Nick, although what had occurred between them barely even constituted a conversation, but his attention was diverted to the sound of a key in the locker room door and the click of the lock.

“What the hell?” Sascha said, striding over to the door.

He grabbed the handle and wasn’t in the least bit surprised to discover that the sound he’d heard was in fact the sound of the door being locked so turned his attention to banging on the door and shouting for assistance. Even Nick had managed to put his phone down and had made his way to the door where he was now peering through the keyhole.

“Err, mate, I think you’re wasting your time,” Nick commented.

Shaking his hand to relieve the pain from banging the door, Sascha crouched beside Nick to peer through the keyhole and saw one of the staff from the facility dancing his way down the corridor, with a pair of headphones firmly in place and the gentle hum of music coming from them being audible through the slit of the keyhole. Exasperated, he collapsed against the door and looked at his watch. Dinner would be cold by the time he’d called somebody to come and rescue him.

“It’s “Stayin’ Alive”. At least I think it is,” Nick said, his ear pressed against the keyhole.

“What?”

“The song he’s listening to,” Nick replied, straining his face to listen as the footsteps got further away.

“He’ll be praying he’s staying alive when I get a hold of him,” Sascha commented.

Ignoring the slight smile on Nick’s face, Sascha began rummaging through his racket bag to find the crevice that his phone had imbedded itself in, finally finding it under his shower gel that was still damp with condensation and switching it on.

“Seriously? What is it with the signal round here?” He groaned as the screen illuminated, revealing that he once again was without service.

Until tonight it had been a minor inconvenience that he as often found himself without signal as he did with whenever he was on the grounds, but to find that it had let it down tonight when it was absolutely crucial that he reached out to his team further soured his less than bright mood. It was even further soured by the recollection that the complex WiFi was switched off every night, probably by the very man who’d left them in this situation.

“I need you to call the tournament director and tell him to get us out of here,” Sascha said, turning to Nick.

“Of course, your majesty. Anything else? Need me to polish your tennis shoes while I’m at it?” 

Despite the heavy sarcasm in his tone, Nick pushed himself up using Sascha’s knee and returned to the bench where his phone was resting. Sascha eyed him closely as he entered his passcode and frowned slightly, before he turned back to him and held up the screen to him.

“No signal.”

In response, Sascha kicked his heel into the ground and shoved his bag aside with indignation, before letting his eyes rest on his feet. In spite of himself, he reached out and adjusted his socks so they were level, not bothering to check Nick’s undoubtedly smug reaction to this, before folding his arms and staring into the distance. 

“You’re acting like a total child,” Nick commented.

“It’s midnight and I haven’t even had dinner yet. I’m supposed to be playing again in fourteen hours,” Sascha snapped back without looking at him.

He knew that he was taking out the situation on Nick and that his behaviour probably did look more than slightly childish, but at this point he was far too tired and surly to rectify his lack of manners. Instead, he continued staring into the distance, the only sound in the room the gentle rustle of Nick rooting through his racket bag. He felt something land on his lap and looked down to find a chocolate bar resting there. 

“If we’re going to be stuck in here all night, I don’t want you being all moody,” Nick said with a shrug.

Sascha picked up the chocolate bar and turned it over in his hands before looking back up at Nick with an apologetic look in his eyes.

“I’m not eating processed sugars,” He said by way of an apology.

Nick rolled his eyes and returned to rooting through his bag, pulling out various food items before zipping it up and returning to Sascha where he tipped the items into his lap before sitting beside him and reaching out for the rejected chocolate bar. He dropped the wrapper to one side and took a big bite.

“Help yourself. If there’s anything that doesn’t go against your super strict and professional diet, that is.”

This time he took the dig with a smile and riffled through the pile of snacks that was on his lap, settling on a packet of nuts which he tipped into his hand before tilting his head back and pouring them into his mouth. It wasn’t exactly the steak he had planned and relayed to his team, but it would stave off the hunger temporarily and for that he was grateful.

“Do they not teach you manners in top 3 school?” Nick said, watching him with a smirk.

“I’m only top 5 now so the same standards don’t apply,” He quipped back.

“Hard to imagine Roger and Novak sitting in a locker room having a picnic,” Nick mused.

“Hard to imagine anybody letting them out of their sight for long enough to let them be locked in a locker room together,” Sascha pointed out.

“And to be fair, Novak would be like even fussier than you.”

Unable to help himself, Sascha laughed. It was an open secret in the locker room that Nick wasn’t exactly Novak’s biggest fan and wasn’t afraid to show it. He admired it in many ways, that brazzeness and lack of regard for the potential backlash. For as long as he could remember, he’d been trained to show respect for the opponent and stay on message: the tournament was great, the fans were great, his opponent was great. Sometimes he didn’t quite stay “on message”, but he was always careful not openly antagonise any of his fellow players or say something that would still be following him around years later. Unlike the man beside him.

“Thanks. For the nuts,” Zverev said.

“No problem. They’ve probably been in there for weeks. My Mum picks up all the free snacks at hotels and player lounges and sticks them in my bag.”

“She probably realised that only you would be stupid enough to get locked in a locker room,” Sascha teased.

“And you,” Nick said, equally playfully. 

“And me,” Sascha admitted.

“Well I hope I get a mention in your memoirs when you retire after winning a ton of slams.”

“I’d take just one slam right now.”

Nick reached out and relieved Sascha's lap of a second chocolate bar which he tore into. Scrunching the wrapper in his hand, Nick broke a piece of the chocolate off and popped it into his mouth, filling the room with his gentle munching. Despite himself, Sascha let his eyes fall on the chocolate. It had been so long since he’d indulged and the smell of it on an almost empty stomach was too much. He took the remains of the chocolate bar out of a surprised Nick’s hand and pushed it into his mouth, sucking on the firm contours to enjoy every second of it.

“Daddy won’t be happy when he comes and rescues you,” Nick teased.

“Daddy won’t be finding out,” Sascha murmured through a mouthful of chocolate.

As he continued sucking the chocolate, he was conscious of Nick’s eyes on him and their close proximity. If he leant even just a fraction to the right, their shoulders and legs would touching. It took him back to the days of junior tournaments when they’d use each other’s room as if it were their own, sneaking in popcorn and anything alcoholic they could get their hands on when their parents and coaches had turned in for the night. They’d come a long way since then. Although not too far, based on the illicit snacks they were now indulging in once again.

“Let’s play a game,” Nick suggested.

“What? I spy?” Sascha snorted.

“Shag, marry, kill.”

“Seriously?” Sascha asked, turning to look at Nick.

“Why not? You got something better to do?” Nick challenged.

He had him there. If the options on the table were sitting in silence, eating their way through hotel snacks, making small talk or playing a trivial game, he had to confess that the game was the least painful option. And, from the look in Nick’s eye, he knew that full well.

“Fine. You start.”

“Okay…Muguruza, Sharapova, Stephens.”

Sascha took a moment to consider the options, “Marry Muguruza, shag Stephens, kill Sharapova.”

“Kill Sharapova?”

“The grunt,” Sascha explained.

Nick laughed, “Nice logic.”

“Now you,” Sascha said staring at him intently, “Svitolina, Barty and Halep.”

Nick groaned, “I’ve know Ash since we were kids. She’s like my little sister.”

“You’ve got to choose.”

“Okay, okay. Shag Halep, marry Barty - but it’d be like one of those sexless marriages where we have different bedrooms - and kill Svitolina.”

“Poor Gael,” Sascha commented, prompting another laugh from Nick.

“Let’s spice this up a bit,” Nick teased, “Roger, Rafa, Novak.”

“I know you were going to do this,” Sascha sighed, “Marry Roger, shag Rafa, kill Novak.”

“Stop him breaking Roger’s records?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Sascha murmured, “I just don’t want to risk him talking about his love and peace bullshit.”

“I’ve never heard you so bitchy before,” Nick said, sounding impressed.

Normally he wasn’t, but there was something about being stuck in a locker room with Nick that made him feel that he could get away with it. Probably because he could sit there in the comfort that Nick would inevitably come out with something more outlandish and, if he didn’t, he wasn’t the sort of person who went telling tales anyway. Anything said between them would stay between them, which was probably for the best considering the media beating they’d take if it ever got out that they’d so casually played “Shag, Marry, Kill” with their colleague’s names.

“Medvedev, Thiem, Tsitsipas.”

“Marry Medvedev, shag Thiem, kill Tsitsipas.” Nick said simply.

“Kill Tsitsipas? I thought you guys were super tight now?” Sascha asked, his interest piqued. 

“Yeah, so did I and then he unfollowed me on Instagram and deleted all the pictures of our dubs matches out of nowhere.”

“Wow, sounds crazy. Like a pissed ex-girlfriend,” Sascha commented.

“I know, right? Way too heavy for me.”

“Maybe he thought he might have a shot now you’ve worked your way through half the WTA,” Sascha said pointedly.

“I have not worked my way through half the WTA,” Nick defended, then cheekily adding, “Maybe like a third.”

“Your life, man.”

“I know, it’s horrendous,” Nick chuckled, “Sock, Fritz, Isner.”

“Your American boys? Marry Fritz, shag Isner, kill Sock.”

“Kill Sock?”

“Imagine the grocery bills,” Sascha commented, giving Nick a pointed look from the corner of his eye.

Nick’s mouth dropped in shock, quickly turning into laughter, “I can’t believe you just said that. Brutal. I mean, you have a point, but brutal.”

“Gasquet, Monfils, Simon.”

“Marry Richard, shag Monfils, kill Simon.”

“At least one half of GEMS life makes it out alive,” Sascha pondered.

“That stuff is so cringey.”

“I guess you couldn’t do the same with all your WTA sidechicks or Instagram would have banned you for spam.”

“Are you always this bitchy when you’re hungry?”

“Only with the right company,” Sascha said, flashing him a grin.

“Let’s give you a hard one. Khachanov, Dimitrov and...me,” Nick dared.

Sascha had known it was coming. The second Nick had suggested the game, he’d known that Nick would take it into this particular territory and that he’d expect an answer. The problem was that, despite having all that time to prepare, Sascha still wasn’t sure how to play it. Not that he was prepared to give that away, lazily crossing his legs and turning to focus his attention on Nick.

“Marry Grigor, shag Karen and kill you.”

A flicker of surprise passed across Nick’s face, “Kill me?”

“Why would I have a second bite of the same cherry?” 

Nodding, Nick leaned back and tilted his head against the door, a smile playing around his lips. Sascha didn’t dare ask what he was thinking about, but he had a pretty good idea. It had been years, but it was still there in the looks they exchanged in the locker room and even on opposite sides of the court. There were some memories that simply wouldn’t go away with time, particularly when you didn’t actually want them to go away in the first place.

“Even when the cherry is that good?” Nick said, from beside him.

“Who said the cherry was that good?” Sascha challenged.

“You’re saying it wasn’t?”

“I was young and inexperienced,” Sascha shrugged.

“If you’re offering an older and more experienced repeat…” Nick ventured.

“Right here and now in this locker room?”

“I’m game if you are.”

He was game. More game than he really should be now that he was in a stable relationship with a woman and the trouble was that Nick knew that. He’d always known that, even before Sascha had known that. They’d carefully constructed a wall between them once their careers propelled them into the spotlight, but it had always been an unspoken knowledge between them that one word or even touch could so easily tear that wall down.

He felt the soft touch of Nick’s fingers gently tracing under the hem of his shorts and felt his will give in, just as he had known it would when Nick had proposed they play the game. It had all been laid out so obviously for him and he’d still fallen into the trap.

“Sascha?!”

Both men jumped up, the floor clattering with the snacks falling from Sascha’s lap as they turned to look at the door that he was pretty sure that his father was hammering away on the other side of.

“Papa?”

“The door’s locked,” Alexander Snr. shouted rattling aggressively at the handle.

“I know. Why do you think I’m still in here?” Sascha said, rolling his eyes with exasperation.

“Step away from the door.”

Sascha made to start arguing with his father, but heard his body thud against the door before he could. Seeing the pointlessness of trying to reason with him, he ushered Nick back where they stood and watched the wood around the door handle slowly give way to the labours on the other side of it. On the seventh attempt, the wood finally cracked and gave, opening the door to reveal a sweaty Alexander Zverev Snr. looking particularly flustered. He looked between Nick and Sascha with confusion, Sascha sure that his face was giving away what he was on the verge of doing, but then bent to heave Sascha’s racket bag onto his shoulder and nod towards the open doorway.

“I’ll ring the tournament director, tell him he needs to take better care of his players,” His father said scathingly, heading out into the corridor.

Hesitating, he turned to look at Nick who was attempting to hide the disappointment on his face with an easy smile. Sascha returned the smile, all too aware that the same disappointment was barely hidden on his own face. It was better this way. Better for both of them, better for his career, better for Olya. It wasn’t likely that they’d ever find themselves in this situation again, where their guards could come down and they could give in to the temptation that they’d spent so long pretending didn’t exist.

“I’ll see you later,” Sascha said, almost sadly.

“Yeah. See you around.”

He followed the distant figure of his father out of the complex, breathing in the cool night air as he finally got to the car park and leaned against the car while his father ranted down the phone into the voicemail of the tournament director. He could only imagine the variety of apology gifts that would be sent to their hotel ready for them to receive in the morning. None of which his father would actually put to use, but would certainly enjoy telling anybody who came into his path all about. 

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and reached into his shorts to recover it, rolling his eyes at the increasingly irate tone of his father, and opened the message.

👄🍒 _room 314_

He’d passed Nick in the reception of their hotel a few times during the tournament so the intent couldn’t be mistaken. For a moment, his conscience awoke and his finger hovered over the delete button, ready to get rid of the temptation. The moment lasted barely a second though; the room number was etched into his mind now and once his father finally ran out of words, he knew he’d finally stop pretending that he wasn’t even going to consider knocking on that door and find his way to that room at the first opportunity.

“I think he’s got the message. Let’s go,” Sascha snapped to his father.

He’d been unable to resist the first bite of the cherry. What chance did he have with the offer of a second?


	2. Chapter 2

Wrapped up in the sheets of Nick Kyrgios’ bed, Sascha groaned softly. Jesus, how had he managed to deny himself this for so long? Just the touch of Nick’s fingers skimming against his thighs and hips was electric as he moved down his body, taking him fully in his mouth softly and gently, building the pace as Sascha bucked his hips back against him, catching his fingers in the sheets to control himself, it made him come apart in ways he hadn’t before. His breath caught in his throat as Nick took him deeper, lifting his body against his mouth, and he reached out for Nick, running his hands through his hair - anything for more contact between their bodies as he shuddered to a climax, gasping with the force of it.

Glistening with sweat, his breath still uneven, Sascha collapsed against the pillows. Years had passed since they’d last been together like this and somehow their bodies still slotted together effortlessly, so familiar with each other’s wants and desires. Being with Nick was instinctive, it always had been, even during those very first nights when they had both been wracked with giddy nerves at the discovery of the new connection between them. It seemed impossible that he'd kept the wall between them up for so long. From the grin on Nick’s face as he sidled up to him, resting his head on his arm and suggestively running his tongue across his upper lip, it seemed that he wasn’t alone in this thought.

“We really shouldn’t have done this,” Sascha said.

“That’s easy to say now we’ve done it.”

“I’m serious,” Sascha persisted.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a super professional tennis player who shouldn’t be screwing around with a rival, you’ve got commitments etcetera, etcetera, but you still showed up here tonight.”

“How can you be so cool about it?” Sascha asked.

“Because I enjoy fucking you.”

It really was that easy with Nick, alarmingly so to Sascha. For Nick it was as simple as seeing something that he wanted and taking it, although there wasn’t much taking involved when Sascha had so willingly given it up to him. If either of them was going to be the one to put their foot down it was going to have to be Sascha, but now he’d opened himself to this world again, his willpower was hovering just below zero.

“I have a girlfriend,” Sascha said, swallowing and looking up at the ceiling.

“Does she make you cum the way I do?”

“I’m serious!” 

“I know and I get it. She’s beautiful, the perfect tennis girlfriend, wife material. I mean, Jesus, you’re probably already planning the tennis academy to send your kids to, but she’ll never get you the way that I get you.”

“We’ve barely spoken for three years,” Sascha said, his tone rising ever so slightly.

“And you’re still the kid you were then. Desperate for Daddy’s approval, but still hating him because he makes you so desperate for his approval. Dreaming of winning the big titles, but always doubting that you’re actually good enough. Chasing after beautiful women who look right for Brand Zverev, when you’d rather just be screwing me and making no apology for it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He couldn’t. It hurt that he was so completely transparent after all this time and, even more than that, it hurt that the one person who saw all of that and accepted him for it was just about the last person he could ever see himself settling down with. It just wasn’t built to be like that with him and Nick. It was this, stolen moments where they would open themselves up so completely and then slam the door closed until the next time they succumbed to the temptation. 

“I can’t. I just thought I was better at hiding it now,” Sascha confessed.

“You didn’t know I was looking,” Nick said softly, “I watch you in the locker room sometimes, you’re always like super dialled in, but then there’s these like moments when you think nobody’s looking and you look scared.”

Nick reached out and brushed back his blonde hair from his eyes, gently running his fingers along his brow and looking searchingly into his eyes. It was a tenderness he’d never seen in Nick before, nevermind been on the receiving end of. It gave him a flush of longing that felt like a completely different animal to the one that had driven him to this room and this bed.

“And, I get it,” Nick continued, “You’ve got this whole career and life planned out, but you can’t be perfect and maybe screwing around with me is your way of not letting all that shit get on top of you.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It could be.”

What Nick was suggesting had the potential to completely unravel everything he and his family had built for him. This was an affair with another player. An affair with a male player. If it was to ever get out that he’d even dabbled in fooling around with “the bad boy of tennis” as a teenager it would result in a media storm unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. All those years of building up his reputation, making sure he always had the right words prepared about his opponents, would all be forgotten and Nick Kyrgios would be his entire profile for the rest of his career. It was forgivable though, sympathetic even. An affair with Nick, those late nights sneaking around hotel rooms and indulging in knowing every inch of each other’s bodies, all while his girlfriend was a fixture in his support box would destroy him and, even worse, it would destroy her. He wanted it though and that’s what it all hung on. All of it was worth the risk for nights filled with sensuality and seduction like he’d never experienced with another human where he could simply something other than Alexander Zverev the tennis player. Not that he was particularly open to anybody finding out, their every move would have to be calculated to ensure the minimum risk.

“I hate how attractive I find you,” Sascha said, finally speaking.

“Is that your way of asking me to be your side-guy?”

“Why would you even want to be my side-guy?” Sascha asked, genuinely intrigued to know the answer.

“I mean, you can be a total potato sometimes, but I’ve fancied you since you were a virgin with a bad haircut and I never really stopped.”

“Wow, I think there was a compliment in there somewhere,” Sascha said sarcastically.

“Is that good enough for you?” 

“If it got out…I don’t want Olya to get hurt. She doesn’t deserve that,” Sascha warned.

“It won’t get out and, if it did, I’d say that I did all the chasing and you were a good, straight boyfriend until I corrupted you. I mean, let’s face it, I’d probably cop the blame anyway. So?”

Even with his usual flippant way of saying things, Sascha could see in Nick’s eyes that he was completely genuine in the sentiment and would take the heat if things did get messy. Not that he could ever be completely successful in doing so and Sascha wouldn’t be prepared to leave him to hang out to dry like that, as damaging as it would be to him, but that he would offer to put himself in that position unquestioningly made it worth the risk. He could barely trust Nick to turn up to scheduled practice on time but his heart, he instinctively knew, was safe with him.

“So...I think I quite like the sound of being corrupted by you. My new side-guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written explicit material before so I kept it to a minimum here, but hopefully the chapter goes someway to satisfying all the lovely people who commented asking for a second!


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